There’s nothing quite like the thrill of hooking into a kingfish. The way they hit, the way they run—it’s pure chaos in the best way possible. And on this particular day, chaos was exactly what I got.
I was fishing offshore at Mana in Wellington, working a slow-pitch jig in about 50 meters of water. The conditions were perfect— just enough drift to keep things interesting, and the fish finder was lighting up like a Christmas tree. A few smaller fish had taken my jig, but nothing worth writing home about. Then, the hit came!
At first, it felt like a snag—until the snag started ripping line off my reel. The Penn Battle II was screaming, and I knew I had a kingfish on the other end. I leaned in, let the rod do the work, and settled in for the fight. It ran deep, then shot sideways, shaking its head violently. Classic kingfish behaviour.
After a solid five minutes of back-and-forth, I finally got colour—bright yellow tail flashing in the blue. It wasn’t a monster, but a decent fish, maybe 100cm. Just as I reached for the leader, the water beneath the kingie went dark.
Before I could react, a massive bronze whaler exploded from below, jaws wide. In a split second, the kingfish went from prize catch to half-eaten casualty. The shark barely hesitated—just one powerful bite and it was over. What came up was a head, still twitching, the body cleanly severed.
I just stood there, rod in hand, heart pounding. One minute, I was celebrating a solid kingfish, the next, I was left with nothing but a brutal reminder of who really runs the show out here!
Damn Taxman!
Johnny Tightlines
